


The Bard

by litra



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Fairy Tale Elements, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 22:17:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1664498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/litra/pseuds/litra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bard was tall and fair of hair. He stood with his back to the wall by the hearth. The heat of the fire and the flickering of the many oil lamps cast his skin in shades of red and gold. His eyes shone green as if to spite the harshness of the midwinter storm that tried to drown out his cords.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bard

**Author's Note:**

> This was something I toyed around with as a possible longer SPN story, and I still really like the concepts. At the moment though I've been working on other things. I thought I'd throw it out there rather then just let it sit.

 

The bard was tall and fair of hair. He stood with his back to the wall by the hearth. The heat of the fire and the flickering of the many oil lamps cast his skin in shades of red and gold. His eyes shone green as if to spite the harshness of the midwinter storm that tried to drown out his cords.

He had been playing all evening, his hat set out for coins and accepting the occasional cup in exchange for a requested song. Bards were few in these times, for a kingdom that had fallen to ruin was neither generous with coin nor kind to travelers. Ten years past this man would have been welcomed in any of the great houses to play on midwinter's eve. Now he was lucky to play for his supper and sleep in the warmth of the stables.

Still, the sound of his guitar was true, and the people gathered in the town of Bern to wait out the storm were glad of it, even if they would not say so.

The bard played the old folk songs, Blue Moon Watters, and Scarborough Fair, and Mary’s last dance. He played the Old Fiddlers Waltz and Cat On The Roof, and Daisy Do. Then when he’d drunk a pint and the night was wearing on, he plucked out the notes to Summer’s End.

It was an old song about the fall of kingdoms and the end of days, told through two lost lovers in an alternating chorus. The ballad was guaranteed to somber the most boisterous of crowds and was, as a rule, only played on long evenings on the tail end of the season for which it was named. On a cold winter night with a storm raging, it was more then enough to set men to muttering in their cups. The bar’s matron started to round the counter to tell him off but the man at the end caught her arm and said.

“Let him play.”

When the song was done he paused, his fingers making chords without sound as if pondering to himself. Then when the crowd had gone back to their conversations he started in on The Queen’s Four Sons.

It was more a teaching rhyme then a true song, and a grumble of disquiet rose from the listeners once more. The royal line was not thought well of these last ten years. But a voice spoke up from the end of the bar saying “Let him play.” Louder this time and sure of itself, and none was so eager for a fight or so angry at the slight that they would speak against it.

  
  
  


Born of fire the eldest son,

he set the night aflame,

the dawn the light, and sword so bright

bring honor to his name.

 

The second son, midwinter born,

a cunning man indeed.

with learned word and touch of ice,

in every act and deed

 

Tempest child, the third born

Radiant and fair

Quick of jest and song and trick

to dance upon the air

 

queen’s delight the youngest son

and handy with a bow

a child of soft word and deed

from whence great kindness grows

 

Pay honor to the banners flown

for each will have his day

sing of the four great princes

and remember them this way.

  
  


The Bard paused for another drink, and the room was left to contemplate the song. It was ten years since the kingdom had boasted four princes. The eldest, Michael, had perished in defense of the land. Luke, the second son had rode out to the enemy the following day, bearing a white banner and had never returned. The third son, Gabriel, had looked upon the enemy and bent his head. He had spent his men costly, and when the enemy finally came to the castle on the river, they found that the fortress and the island it stood upon had both vanished without trace.

Even ten years later there were still stories of how the youngest, Castiel, would raise an army and return the glory of the kingdom, for no one knew his fate.

When the bard again took up his instrument it was an even more controversial song. The ballad of the black keep was a story once told on Harvest nights to frighten children, until the old demons had broken through Hunters pass. The song ended with the binding of the creatures. The knowledge of which could spell death, given the monsters were now free, and walking among the populous in human skins. There were no details of course, it had long ago been romanticized past any usefulness, or at least none of the fools who had set out to it had accomplished the task.

There was grumbling from the groups of hunched shoulders, the men scowling into their drinks, pulling hats down lower and moving to grip the hilts of weapons. Women pulled coats and shawls closer around their shoulders. One man with broad shoulders and a face red from drink, pushed himself to his feet.

Before he could speak the figure from the end of the bar spoke up once more. “Let him play. A fool will invite his own end.”

“Then let him do it somewhere else.” he turned to the bard, half lit by the fire. “We’re simple folk who want none of yours, go stir up trouble elsewhere, before you bring a cursed fate on us all.”

There were mutterings of accent. The bar matron took a small loaf of bread and cheese quickly wrapped it in a cloth and crossed to the bard. “Thank you for your playing. Please take this and go in peace.”

The bard nodded, and packed his instrument away. He took the bundle, wrapped his cloak tight around his shoulders and pushed out the door into the stom. The patrons went back to their drinks in a stiff silence that refused to lift, even after the bard had been gone for some time.

The man from the end of the bar waited an hour then set down his money and turned to leave himself. No one paid him any mind. He found the Bard leaning against the stall where his horse had stabled.

“Anything?” The bard asked.

The man shook his head.

“Perhaps in the next town Lord Castiel.”

He shook his head again. “Perhaps.”

 

 


End file.
